


oh my next girl (she'll be nothing like my ex girl)

by oddishly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's amazing what you can get away with when people think you're a girl and your brother is your boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh my next girl (she'll be nothing like my ex girl)

**Author's Note:**

> for ordinaryink.

It's child's play, and it goes like this.

John finds them a town. This week it's some place on the east coast. He gestures at but doesn't introduce his boys to the ex-teacher who lives next door, then leaves to take care of something more interesting.

Next day in the store, Dean nods at the same ex-teacher and shrugs an arm around his pretty, demure girlfriend, pulling her out from where she's hiding behind him. She lands cat eyes and dimples on the teacher, because if Dean's got his arm around a girl who has dimples then it doesn't matter that Dean himself looks like the guy who'll talk your niece into the backseat of his car.

When Sam bites on his lower lip and lets a blush slip onto his cheeks, the teacher doesn't suspect a thing. He smiles down at him and steps aside so they can walk by, and then Sam leans all the way up into Dean's hold and murmurs, "No cameras," in his ear. He pulls back.

Dean tugs him in again. He skates his hand down Sam's side until his fingers land on the waistband of his skirt, dips his thumb underneath and presses into the skin until Sam gives in. He tips back as Dean leans down to press a long, close-mouthed kiss underneath his jaw, the thumb on his hip angling him somewhere specific, and finds himself staring directly over Dean's head at a pinprick amber light in the corner.

"All right," he says into Dean's hair. "One camera." Sam bats the hand away from his hip. The whole point is that he's a nice girl.

Dean waggles his eyebrows and Sam spares a warm, impatient moment to roll his eyes before letting Dean wheel them around to find something innocuous to buy. His hand is resting in the crook of Sam's neck, a lock of Sam's hair twined around thumb and forefinger. Sam thinks about driving an elbow sideways under cover of Dean's own body; neither of them cares if the mom in the middle of the milk aisle thinks they make an attractive couple and Dean's not actually being funny. 

He doesn't, though. It's still Dean. And it's kind of funny, if you think about it.

\---

"Let's get ice cream," says Dean on their way back from the store.

Sam brightens. It's a nice day, and he could see if they have blueberry. And fudge. Then he could mix them together. "Okay," he says, thinking about what else he might try. Dean's going to have the apple pie kind with sprinkles regardless of whatever else is there, and then he's going to do his best to steal half of Sam's. That's okay. Sam's got moves. He can take Dean.

Big surprise -- ten minutes later, Sam is doing his absolute best to keep his ice cream away from Dean's tongue. "Did I buy that for you or did I not buy that for you," Dean demands, standing right between Sam's legs to keep him against a wall while he grapples for the cone.

"You did not," Sam snaps. Look, this is _his_ ice cream. "We stole it." 

"Keep your fucking voice down."

Sam opens his mouth again to hiss it in Dean's ear, but it becomes a moot point anyway when the truck driver reappears. He doesn't look so happy. "Damn," Sam mutters, and lets go of the cone.

"You – "

Sam yanks Dean's head towards him with both hands in his hair. Dean sighs, put-upon, but drops his hands to Sam's waist and presses his face into his neck.

It's surprising how little you need to do with your brother if you want people to believe that you're a girl and he's your boyfriend. Sam puts about 95% of it down to people employing selective observational skills, but sometimes that makes him nervous -- all it takes is one person to notice they're not doing anything more than a bit of awkward petting, and they're toast.

That one person could be the ice cream truck driver. Sam pulls Dean closer to him, tries to press himself right up and into the wall, and lets one hand slip down to cup the back of Dean's neck. Everything short of actually kissing Dean. And now he's got to scrub that image out of his head. He shuts his eyes.

Dean mutters his name but Sam ignores him. He's enjoying the last of the taste of the blueberry-fudge in his mouth, and it's warm in the sunshine and they haven't been caught and his brother is here. It's all good.

\---

It was supposed to be a joke. Then it was a do-over on the joke, because their first attempt produced such successful results that neither of them laughed. Then it was because they were hungry, and because John hadn't been home in a while and Dean had fucked the boss's daughter until he was all the way out of a job, and when you're desperate, putting on a skirt to rob a bank doesn't seem so crazy after all.

Tonight they're just bored. Actually, Dean's bored, and Sam wants to go to the bar with him, so it's not like it's some big hardship to dress up again: same swishy skirt and flowery top as he was wearing in the store, silk scarf knotted around his neck and as much black on his eyes as he can manage before half blinding himself with the pencil. He swears and drops it, squeezing his eye shut and jamming his palm over the top. 

"All right, Sammy?" asks Dean from the hallway. 

"Fuck off." Sam takes his hand away. Tries opening his eye, and regrets it immediately. He squints at Dean. "Why's it always me who has to be the girl, anyway?"

Dean smirks. Sam sighs. "Don't answer that."

He tips his face into the light and lets Dean open his eye for him, holding his eyelid up with a finger to stop him from blinking. He holds his breath while Dean angles his head from one side to the other, fingers careful on his jaw, and tries not to flinch when Dean lets out a triumphant breath and wets the tip of his finger, picking out a tiny chunk of pencil.

Sam sits on the edge of the bath and lets Dean redo all his makeup for him, checks in the mirror in case he missed Dean drawing a penis on his face or anything, and very carefully doesn't do anything to the almost-perfect lines around his eyes. He wiggles his ass on the way out the door. Dean laughs.

The bar Dean picks out is the sort of place Sam didn't realise he knew about. Local band playing up onstage, low-level lighting, sofas and the odd beanbag in place of bar stools. Dean gets Sam in with an arm slung around his neck and fake IDs and a nod for the bouncer, and abandons him in a corner while he heads to get drinks. Sam watches him flirt with the girl on his side of the bar, followed by the bartender, then realises there's a guy a couple of people away from Dean that's frowning all the way across the room at him. Sam sits up a bit straighter and toys with the band in his hair, silently praying that Dean doesn't turn around in that moment and catch him at it. He slouches right back down when the guy looks away, and congratulates himself on avoiding twenty offers from Dean to braid his hair for him next time they go out.

Dean drops down in the sofa next to him with a beer in one hand and a tall glass of something blue for Sam. "They don't do any pink drinks," he says, patting Sam's knee in commiseration. "Sorry."

He leaves his hand where it is on Sam's leg. "Thanks anyway," Sam tells him.

The bar guy is still staring when Dean comes back with two more drinks, putting an edge on the night that Sam doesn't like. He tugs at the bottom of his skirt, checks that every button is still done up of his top. The guy is making him nervous for reasons he can't decide on, because it's not like they're in the middle of a job. There are no consequences to getting found out here.

He looks at Dean. Dean’s got his eyes fixed on a pool game that either of them could win one-handed, and probably will, in an hour, and he isn't touching Sam anymore. He's on the other side of the sofa, a good couple of feet between them.

It's a really long way away.

"Dean," Sam says quietly. The dude at the bar looks like he's half a drink away from barging over. Sam shuffles up some. "Hey."

Dean starts, and turns to follow Sam's line of sight under guise of looking at the clock above the bar. Then he looks at Sam. "All right," he says. He pats the bit of sofa next to him, and when Sam's shuffled up some more, hooks his arms around him and hauls him astride his lap, face to face. "Hey, baby."

Sam considers punching him. "Baby?"

"Mmm." Dean's grinning at him. He drops his hands to Sam's hips, pulls him in closer. "Did you miss me all the way over there?" 

Sam snorts, and decides he doesn't care that a good half of the other patrons are staring. Whatever. It’s a bar. They’ll get over it. He winds his arms around Dean's neck, settling himself a bit lower and letting Dean push the skirt up so he can straddle his legs comfortably. "So much," he says. " _Baby_."

"It's called getting into character," Dean informs him. He's holding on to Sam but not really doing anything else, looking at Sam the way he always does when Sam's all dressed up like this: warm and extra-affectionate. One day Sam's going to call him on that.

Sam slides a hand into Dean’s hair, keeping his eyes down as Dean sneaks a look at the bar. He tugs lightly on the ends of Dean's hair, wrinkles his nose because they're out of shampoo and now he's got greasy fingers, then drops his head to nuzzle briefly under Dean's ear. He has to fight not to jump when Dean digs his fingers into his hips. "I'm just doing what you said."

"You're no good at this stuff. Isn't it about time you had a girlfriend? Got some practice?" Dean turns his face in to Sam's neck and opens his mouth, presses his tongue flat and wet to the skin. To anyone else it would look like a kiss. It's really gross.

"I hate you so much right now. Urgh, Dean." Sam squirms. "I've had girlfriends. Never licked their necks, though."

"Live and learn, Sammy." Dean shows every sign of not stopping with the licking so Sam works a hand under his shirt and tickles his stomach, doing his best to make it look like a caress, or something. Dean removes his tongue pretty quick, grabbing Sam's arm and dragging it out from his shirt. He wraps his fingers in Sam's, palms pressed awkwardly together. 

Sam leaves his free hand on the back of Dean's neck like Dean's left his halfway up Sam's thigh. "That guy still there?"

Dean takes a look. "Nope."

"You couldn't have said that before?" Sam flicks Dean's neck and tries to draw back. "Guess he got bored."

Dean slides his hand a fraction higher up the inside of Sam's leg. "Someone had to," he says, and doesn't let Sam go anywhere. Because he's a jerk. Sam tries not to blaze up in embarrassment and fails.

"Fuck off," he says. "I'm sixteen. It's a physiological reaction to stimulation."

"Don't remember stimulating anything, but okay, Sammy," Dean tells him, smirking. "You want to go a bit longer? Find out how much your skirt will cover up?"

Sam tips his forehead onto Dean's shoulder. "I hate you," he mutters, cursing his dick and willing it down. He lets go of Dean's neck and grabs for his hand before it gets any further up his leg. "And you're not funny."

"You love me. I'm hilarious. And fucking hot."

"That doesn't – I don't care how hot you are. Think you are."

"Hey, I'm giving you an out if you want it," Dean says. He drums his fingers against Sam's leg and plucks at the nylon. "You think Dad's ever got dressed up like this?" He pauses. "I do. Floofy skirt and stockings, the whole shebang."

Sam spends a delicate moment picturing it, then sits all the way up. Dean grins at him. "Better?"

"No," Sam mutters, but he's kind of lying. He climbs out of Dean's lap and settles back into the sofa, mostly sure that that could have gotten a whole lot more embarrassing if the universe or Dean had wanted it to. His skirt's gotten all rucked up around him, so he untwists it as best he can and wonders if he can salvage any of his ladylike demeanour. "I want a drink," he says, just to say something. He doesn't really care.

"Aww, Sammy," says Dean. He tilts until, just like that, his lips are on Sam's cheek, at the very edge of his mouth. "You want an umbrella in that?" he asks without pulling away.

Sam tries not to react. "No," he says evenly.

Dean, bane of Sam's existence, fucking laughs.

\---

Two nights later and three towns over and zero banks robbed, whichever way you look at it, it's going to be kind of galling when they get arrested for all John's weapons in the trunk. There's a roadblock up ahead, cops stopping and searching cars at random. "Fucking fantastic," Dean mutters. Sam agrees. There are fields on either side of the road but nowhere for them to escape to unless they leave the car behind. Sam doesn't think Dean's going to want to do that. _Sam_ doesn't want to do that. Particularly not in a skirt.

He tries to settle back in his seat. "If this was Delaware," he says, "we wouldn't really have anything to complain about."

In Delaware they spent the first night in the car because they couldn't afford a room, and the second night at a strip club because suddenly they had the money to do that. Sam could pretty much take or leave the strippers, but the third night they went back with Sam dressed like a girl. That was more fun. Then they went back to the car for the rest of the night, because after a while it was just kinda weird for both of them.

"If this was Delaware and we got arrested, I'd still be complaining," Dean replies. He's gripping the steering wheel pretty tight. "Like I will if we get arrested now. Can you see anywhere I can turn off? Or around? Why are they searching cars, anyway?"

"Yeah, but that time we did something worth getting arrested for." Like trick johns into the car then rob them blind. Neither Sam nor Dean enjoyed doing that.

"Suggestions welcome any time right now, Sam." 

Sam thinks. Very, very quickly. He shoots Dean a look. "We could – "

Dean's jaw tightens but he puts the blinker on without waiting for Sam to finish. Sam does his best to wriggle out of the skirt and back into his pants, and yanks a hoodie on as the car comes to a stop behind the bushes. He tilts his head sideways when he feels Dean's finger pluck the headband out of his hair. When he's done, he flattens himself into the seatback. A moment later and Dean is sitting astride his lap.

Dean sits strangely, like he's trying not to squash Sam too much. Sam hooks his fingers into Dean's elbows, trying to get him to relax all the way – hisses it in his ear when he doesn't move – and loses all his breath anyway when Dean turns his head just so, looking Sam straight in the eye so that their noses brush.

Sam's lips part. He tugs again, this time with one of his hands flat in the middle of Dean's back. "Come on, Dean," he whispers. "This has to be good."

"Yeah," says Dean eventually. Sam doesn't know what the problem is, but he doesn't have time to find out, either. There's someone walking towards them from the roadblock, the beam of their flashlight bouncing off the dash with every step closer. 

Sam waits until Dean is sitting right, knees pressed into the seat on either side of Sam’s thighs, letting Sam take all his weight. Then he takes a deep breath and fits one hand between them, low on Dean's stomach, the other pressing down against the back of Dean's head so their foreheads are pushed together.

Dean's mouth is so close that Sam can feel his breath play across his own lips. They don't let it get this far, normally. There's only so far you can go with your brother before it gets weird.

No, later on Sam is going to think about how weird it is; right now he can smell beer and tomato sauce on Dean's breath, and that's pretty much normal.

"Stop wriggling," Dean whispers. Sam doesn't know why they're whispering, it just seems the thing to do under the circumstances. He shifts minutely, breath fluttering stupidly out of him. Feels Dean's whole body hitch.

"Do it right, then," he whispers back. "Just pretend I'm a girl. Really a girl."

Dean tightens his fingers around Sam's in his lap. "Always do." 

Sam kinda wants to make a thing out of that, but then someone raps on the window from the outside and they both jump. Hard. Sometimes it's difficult to keep your mind on the real reason you're all but mouth-to-mouth with your brother. Whatever. Sam puts it to the back of his mind as Dean says, "Yeah?"

"You – Christ, Jack, it's just kids." The voice sounds exasperated. 

Sam slaps a layer of Dean into his voice. "Not really," he says. Dean groans louder than necessary and tips his head against Sam's shoulder.

The passenger door opens. A woman who looks about their dad's age sticks her head inside the car, her expression good and irritated. "Aside from the obvious," she says, "what do you two think you're doing out here?"

Sam smirks. "Well," he starts, and startles when Dean gets a hand over his mouth.

"I'm real sorry," he says over Sam's grumbling. Dean's good at this part. Sam opens his mouth a bit under his hand. "His dad doesn't like – well – " Dean gestures between them, giving the woman an awkward smile. "We just wanted a bit of privacy."

"Privacy," she repeats.

"Yeah," says Dean. He makes it sound helpless, embarrassed. Sam thinks about how many times Dean forgets to lock the bathroom door when he's jerking off and wants to laugh. Instead he tightens his grip in Dean's left hand and blows out a little on the palm of his right. Just a bit. Dean squeezes his fingers.

"Jesus Christ," the woman says again. "Well – look, you can't stay here." Her fingers aren't twitching for her radio, though. Or any kinds of forms. She sounds like she's trying to be understanding rather than just pissed off and tired. "There are plenty other places you can go for that. You'll get yourselves killed on this road." 

"Sorry, ma'am," Dean says at once. "Can we go? I'll take him home now."

"Of course you will," she says. "Go on, then."

Sam stares at him once they're back on the road. 

"What," Dean says.

Sam's fingers are kind of sore, clenched tight around his thigh now that Dean's hand isn't available. He tells himself to let go, look out his own window. "Nothing," he says once he's managed that. He drums his fingers on his knee. "It's not like we haven't done that before, Dean. Last time it was your idea." 

Dean doesn't reply. Sam waits until they're twenty minutes from their house and then he says, "It worked, come on. We've still got all our guns and no handcuffs." He waves both hands at the windshield before he realises what he's doing and drops them again, trying not to blush. Be fucking dorkier, Dean is supposed to say here. There's a dull sort of sulk working its way into Sam's chest that he doesn't really know what to do with. 

"Making out," Dean says, "is not a fucking getaway plan." His voice sounds strained. Sam debates the merits of teasing him out of his funk, decides he doesn't want to deal with it, and leans his head against the window. Watches Dean's hands clench white around the steering wheel the whole way back.

\---

Dean's mood persists all week, but outside of the making out in the car thing, Sam puts it down to the two days without electricity and having no food that isn’t past the expiration date and no sign of John. He goes without lunch every day at school for the week, which just about writes off the sixth and seventh period but does mean he finds another twenty in his jacket for Dean. There's only so many books Sam can read before he just wants to hang out with his brother.

On Sunday, Dean takes the money and leaves the house without a word. He comes back with bread, lunchmeat, five apples and five oranges, a jumbo bag of chips and some of those protein bars, and a big Tupperware lunchbox. Sam stays silent while Dean puts two lunches together and sticks them in the fridge next to a multipack of yoghurt. "Nice try, Sammy," he says on his way out of the room.

John calls when Sam's already in bed: he's going to be out of the state another week, they doing okay? Dean, you making sure your brother takes his nose out of his book every once in a while? Doing my job for me?

Sam stares at Dean. Dean stares back. "Yeah, Dad," he says. "We're good." He doesn't mention anything about not having food, or the electricity getting cut off, or fake making out with Sam three days running last week.

Dean's mood is gone when he ends the call. He tosses the phone to the side and gives Sam fuck-all warning before hurling himself on top of him on the bed, sitting on his stomach and pinning his arms down with a hand on each wrist. Sam yelps, trying to buck Dean off, but Dean just smirks down at him. "Gotcha."

"Very impressive," Sam grumbles. He clenches his fists like that's going to make Dean let go, and wrinkles his nose when Dean leans down and bites his ear. "Ow, Dean."

Dean waggles his eyebrows at him. He gives it another minute before climbing off, apparently making sure Sam's clear on who's won this round. Whatever. Sam waits for Dean to flop down beside him on top of the covers, then digs his elbow into Dean's side.

Dean ignores him. "Little bit of bank robbery looks pretty good right now, don't you think, Sammy?"

Sam snorts and decides not to ask if making out is still out now that bank robbery's back in. God. As if their life wasn't screwed up enough already. "Tomorrow's good," he says instead.

\---

Tomorrow isn't good. Tomorrow is a disaster.

They decide that times aren't desperate enough yet to rob another bank, and drive to the other side of the state because they’re about to earn all that gas money back and it’ll be worth it. They end up at the dodgy end of town; on purpose, because that's where it's okay for a cocksure dude in a leather jacket and his girlfriend to sit down at a poker table. Not that anyone's more amenable to being robbed at this end of town, but that isn't normally a barrier to Sam and Dean walking away rich. Well, briefly rich.

It's not working today. Sam's got no idea what's up with Dean, why he keeps dropping cues to slip his arm around Sam or what the fuck is happening when Dean almost knocks him to the floor before catching him, but he's very clear on what's so distracting about Dean. He's wearing a shirt that's too small for him and the cuffs keep riding up over his wrists, the hem untucked from his pants at the back, and Sam can't focus on anything that isn't all these hints of skin that keep appearing in front of him. 

This isn't a good place to drop cover. Dean is sitting with a group of men at a smoky table, just the kind of scene you see in movies and which no one expects to really exist. Sam and Dean have worked this scene so many times now that Sam has almost, almost, lost count, but not quite. And the stuff that's going wrong should not be going wrong. Sam is next to certain that one of the guys at the table has realised Sam isn't really a girl, and that's making it basically impossible to pick their pockets because he just won't look away.

He's so busy not looking at the guy who's figuring him out that Sam misses it when Dean sends half his chips flying off the table. This is something he does a lot, convincing the other players that he's butter-fingered while he uses his other hand to rob them. This time when Sam looks up at the clatter, the look on Dean's face makes it really very clear that it wasn't planned.

"Thanks, baby," Dean tells Sam when he drops to his knees to gather the chips. His voice is overloud. Sam wants to brush the back of his hand against Dean's ankle to try and calm him down but he thinks it might do more harm than good. He presses a kiss to Dean's cheek when he stands up instead, and tries not to look too surprised when Dean pulls him down into his lap. He grabs Dean's thigh to stop himself from sliding off, and blinks around the table.

They've been doing this for years, now. They should have left the warehouse over an hour ago with a lot of money. Instead Sam realises that at least one other guy is staring at him a little too hard, and not in the same smirking way that the first one is. 

Any minute now, Sam is going to have to explain why he felt the need to dress up so convincingly in girls' clothes. They're way, way overdue to leave.

At the end of the round, he puts his hand on Dean's arm and turns his face in a little.

"You okay?" Dean says.

"Tired," Sam replies. Then he remembers it's the middle of the day and says, "Bored, I mean, I'm bored."

They're talking quietly, of course, but they're nervous and getting things wrong and who knows, maybe every single man at the table has an ear turned towards this conversation. That wouldn't be unusual. They attract a lot of attention like this, Dean bright and sure of himself, Sam pretty and adoring. It's half the point. Sam likes getting to adore Dean in public without anyone raising their eyebrows or sneering, and it's kind of fun, playing this risk. Sam gets that that's just adrenaline, but this is just theirs. They don't have to share this adrenaline with their dad or anyone else.

Dean says, "Okay," and lets go of Sam's wrist. "We can go, if you want."

When Sam slips out of Dean's lap, the man at his left, an old guy without much hair left and apparently not much in the way of sense either, stops him from getting past with a hand on his hip. "Hello, sweetheart."

Sam swallows. He tries to smile, hoping the colour heating his face looks like timidity. He doesn't say anything.

"Don't be shy," says the man, curling his fingers around Sam's hip. "What's your name?"

Sam looks at Dean. Dean gives him an encouraging look, or tries to, because it comes over more anxious. Sam doesn't know if anyone else can tell that, though. He turns back to the man. "Sam," he says, barely louder than a whisper. Only lie when it's absolutely unavoidable.

"I'm Roberts. It's nice to meet you, Sam." The man squeezes his fingers, kinda hard. He picks up Sam's hand and pulls it in, smiling up. He puts a wet kiss on the back of it. Sam tries to look charmed. He feels Dean put a hand on his hip, ever the smitten boyfriend, and relaxes a little. 

Roberts doesn't let go of his hand, though. He rubs his fingertips over Sam's palm. Still smiling.

"Sir?" Dean says when it starts getting uncomfortable again. "You think she could have her hand back? Sammy's pretty shy." It's off, the way he says it, doesn't sound like Dean nor like his gambling persona, and it's not the way to talk to a roomful of gambling men. Sam wants him and Dean to leave right now, forget the money, but the man doesn't seem any more inclined to let him go. The smile has dropped from his face.

"Your girl here has interesting hands," he says to Dean. "Good, strong hands. Bet she's good with them. Aren't you, Sam?"

Most of the rest of the men laugh. Dean smirks. "You could say that." He sounds furious. Sam hopes it doesn't show.

Roberts twists Sam's hand over so it's palm-up. "Interesting calluses," he says. Sam's heart sinks. This is not just some senseless old guy. "Where'd you get these, darling?"

He waits. So does the rest of the room, all of them wanting a pleasing answer.

"She –"

"Quiet," says Roberts. Dean shuts up. "I want her to tell me."

"I," starts Sam, no idea where he's going with it but fairly sure that inventing a farm back home isn't going to cut it. Then he feels Dean stand up next to him, and the room goes quieter still.

Dean pulls Sam's hand out of the old man's grasp, gun in hand and pointing down at him. Roberts doesn't react except to let go of Sam. "I think we're gonna be going now," Dean says. "Gentlemen."

He pulls Sam out of the door with an arm around his shoulders and his gun trained on the table. 

Halfway home, Pennsylvania pines zipping by, Sam gets it together enough to say, "Sorry."

Dean turns to look at him, slowing the car right down. He shrugs. "Not your fault, Sammy." Then he smiles. "Darling."

He doesn't really have the tone of voice down right and he's too obviously telling himself to sit relaxed to really feel it, but Sam goes with it. "Fuck you," he says. "He might have asked you the same thing."

"Don't think he'd have called me darling when he did, though," Dean replies, grinning.

The rest of the journey isn't so tense. That's good. Sam leans his head against the window, thinking about sleeping, then pushes back and lies down with his head on Dean's thigh instead. Not thinking about sleeping.

Sam counts out a minute of silence – no smart remarks, no nothing – before Dean puts his hand on Sam's hair and leaves it there. 

Sam shuts his eyes.

\---

It's way past time that Dean wore Sam's girl clothes to go out.

Dean shrugs when Sam mentions it. "Okay."

He totally fucking smirks when Sam frowns at him. "Aw," he says. "Did you think I was going to tell you no?"

"No," Sam snaps, and then reconsiders. "Well. Yeah." 

"I'm very secure in my masculinity," Dean tells him. "You should try it."

"My masculinity's fine," says Sam. It's true, he got over being embarrassed about wearing girls' clothes ages back.

He glares at Dean anyway. "Why's it always me, then?"

"Thought you liked it, Sammy." 

Whatever. So maybe it took Sam a couple months to decide if he liked dressing up for more than just reasons of associating it with Dean and adrenaline, but then he got over that, too. "No," he says, but there’s no bite to it. Dean holds his hand out for the skirt, fingers impatient.

It's not like Sam's never thought about how Dean would look if he was the one dressing up, but this is – different. Sam lasts as long as it takes Dean to button up his top before dropping his book to the floor by his bed and sitting up. He leans back against the headboard, legs crossed.

Dean throws a look at him. "Do I stare at you while you're putting your skirt on?"

Sam snorts. "Yes," he says.

Dean ignores him. "Out, Sam."

 _Now_ he's shy. Sam rolls off the bed and shuts the door behind him. Reads his book carefully and doesn't remember a word.

\---

In the bar, different than last time, Sam cannot take his eyes off his brother. Dean wears the outfit like a gun, different skirt because he's too big for Sam's floaty skirt thing; different top for the hell of it. It's not the one he put on while Sam was still in the bedroom. Sam wonders how many he tried on. This one is bright red. "It really sets off your eyes," Sam tells him.

"Why do you think I'm wearing it, dude?"

It's the easiest thing in the world to get them inside, Dean stunning and fully aware of it. He's wearing his army boots instead of the ballet pumps Sam squashes his feet into, and for some reason that's got every man and half the women in the place staring at his legs. Sam glares around the room and gets so close to Dean that he might as well be hugging him. Dean doesn't seem to mind. It's easier for him to keep an eye on Sam when he's close enough to trip over. At least, that's what Sam assumes. 

"Get me a Bud." Dean has to kink his head to the side to whisper it in Sam's ear. Sam can still get away with speaking as a girl, if he's quiet. Dean's voice is deeper. It wouldn't work. Sam likes hearing it, though.

Dean's wearing a wig, and it’s long and dark and at least two hairs of it land in Sam's beer. He wrinkles his nose and drags Dean to a booth in the corner.

The bar is a dive by necessity, and Sam isn't convinced they're not going to get thrown out anyway. He doesn't know what they'll do if that happens. Dean will probably use it as an excuse to put his jeans back on.

Sam glances sideways. Dean doesn't look too traumatised by everyone who's staring at him. He's toying with the amulet Sam gave him, pulling it from one side of the string to the other. Sam stares at his mouth while he’s still distracted. The red is smudged. Sam thinks he's probably trying to remember not to chew it off his lips. He's doing way better at it than Sam ever does.

Any second now, one of those guys at the door is going to saunter up and ask Dean to come outside with them. Staring them down isn't doing anything, neither is watching Dean tap his fingers on the rim of his glass. Sam sets his jaw and presses his arm into Dean's side.

"Jealous?" 

Dean says it out of nowhere, doesn't even lower his voice or try to disguise it. If anyone overhears, they will think it was Sam who spoke. Dean nods at the guys at the door.

"What do you think?" Sam asks.

Dean takes a gulp of his drink and sets the glass down on the table again. He looks at Sam. "Then do something about it."

Sam doesn't know what the hell he means by that, but it's wildly unfair that Dean's called every single one of the shots until now, including now. He reaches sideways and slips his hand around the back of Dean's neck, drags him closer and doesn't stop, doesn't even hesitate. He presses his mouth to Dean's in a single, silent kiss. If Dean doesn't like it, he should have thought of that when he started giving ambiguous orders. 

Dean's lips part against his. 

Sam pulls right back. Dean stays where he is, neck tilted into Sam's hand in such a way as to make Sam think he really doesn't want him to move.

So Sam leans in and kisses him again. This time he slips his other hand down and around to the small of Dean's back to pull him in closer still, then drops that same hand down to Dean's thigh. Dean's body is crooked into his, his hands resting, one on the sofa and the other in his lap. Sam doesn't know what to do with that, why Dean isn’t all over him, but now Dean's opening his mouth again, tongue rough at the edge of Sam's, and it's a little bit less careful than before.

Sam slips his hand higher on Dean's leg, and pulls back _again_ but no further than last time. "Did you shave your legs?"

Dean looks like he's about to rattle out of himself. He takes a visible breath.

"Do you like it?" Sam asks before he can answer. Dean blinks.

"I guess," he says. "It's different, is all. Don't do half a job."

Oh. Sam hesitates, then puts his hand back. "It's – it feels nice."

Dean nods. He's not looking so patient anymore, so Sam leans back in. He continues moving his hand up Dean's leg, just smoothing it over the nylon, curling his fingers in and running it inside Dean's thigh. It's a weird combination of hot – god, so hot – and normal, kissing someone that might be a girl and feeling how smooth her legs are. Remembering every moment that it's his brother. Sam wonders if that's why Dean didn't want him in the room earlier. Because he wanted to shave his legs. Maybe he wanted to surprise Sam.

Someone's lips are really wet. Sam doesn't know which of them it is, and he doesn't care, because this is really, really good. Then one of them moans, and that's definitely Dean, voice too low for it to be Sam himself and _fuck_ Sam needs to get his hands on Dean right now, before he explodes. Anywhere on him, cupping his ear or the curve of his jaw or his elbow or flat against his stomach, pressed chest to chest. He squeezes his fingers around Dean's leg and inches it higher still, until the skirt cuts too far into his wrist to let him go further. Somewhere in the back of his brain he is very clear that this isn't fake making out anymore, this isn't just for the guys at the door. This is for him and Dean.

\---

Dean walks in on Sam in the bath next morning. Sam jumps and drops his razor. "Would it kill you knock?"

Dean doesn't answer. He stands in the doorway and looks. 

“Shut the door,” Sam says. "You're letting in all the cold."

That was supposed to be a hint for Dean to get out and leave Sam to his bath. Instead, he stands aside so the door can swing shut, and leans back against it. Sam would really like not to have to pretend he's been jerking off. But.

Dean pushes off from the door. He turns his attention to Sam's knees halfway down the bath, rolling up his shirt sleeve and walking forward. "What are you – " Sam starts, and then Dean drops to his knees next to Sam and plunges his hand into the water. "Dean!"

"Sam!" Dean parrots back. He feels around in the water – Sam widens his eyes and draws his knees all the way up – then pulls his arm out with a grimace, razor in hand.

"What are you _doing_?"

Dean looks at him. He turns the razor around so it's right way up in his hand. "Stretch your legs out."

Sam hesitates. Dean swallows, Sam hears it, and reaches out to flick Sam's knee with a finger. "C'mon." 

Sam stretches his legs out until he's got both feet pressed flat at the other end of the bath. Dean picks the left one up and rests it on the ledge, squeezing his fingers around it so Sam knows not to let it drop. Then he reaches for the shaving cream at Sam's side.

Sam tells himself to let out his breath. He takes another one and holds it.

Dean squirts shaving cream into his hand and squishes it around between his palms to warm it. He doesn't look at Sam when he rises up on his knees and takes Sam’s leg in both hands, smoothing the lather into the skin, ankle to knee. Sam grips his other leg under the water. Hard.

Dean looks up once he's done. Sam thinks it takes him an inordinately long time and wants him to keep going. The water is just, just deep enough. "This is what you were doing," says Dean quietly. "Isn't it?"

Sam tries to say yes, fails, and nods instead.

Dean sets the razor to his leg and pulls it the whole way up, over the knee and a little way up the inside of his thigh. He has to go over the top half twice more to get all the hair. Sam stares at the glossy skin it leaves behind. "Huh," he says.

"Weird, isn't it?" Dean swishes the blade around in the water and sets it to Sam's leg again, immediately to the left of the long clean strip he just made. "Kinda like you're naked."

"I am naked," Sam tells him.

Dean uses the razor to flick water in his face. "I know, dickwad."

"Watch where you're waving that, would you?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Your dick's all the way down there," he says.

Sam's dick isn't all the way down anywhere, but Dean doesn't need to know that. They both hold their breath as Dean drags another line up his leg. Then another one.

"Gotta do it slow," Dean says. "Don't want to cut yourself." He's made it all the way around Sam's shin, and the angle's getting complicated. Sam moves his foot to rest on the faucet, giving Dean a bit more room to work in as he goes up the underside.

"Should have told me before," Sam says. He clutches hold of the tub on both sides and lifts his right leg out of the water until the cuts dotted over it start welling up again. "I made a mess of that one. Think I went too slow rather than too quick, though." He lets his leg down in the water again.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Thought you knew how to shave by now." He reaches out to press the pad of his thumb against the cut still exposed on Sam’s knee, wiping the blood away. Then he runs his thumb a little way down the inside of Sam's thigh. "Long legs, Sammy. What do you need such long legs for?"

Sam stops fighting it. He drops his head back and moans. His dick is standing up in the water, precome dewing at the tip, and the leg he's still holding out of the water is shaking.

He wrenches his head up when he feels Dean drop a kiss to his knee, then tilt his face to rest his cheek against it, turned away from Sam. 

"Dean," Sam breathes, nearly begs it. He wants Dean to look at him, to let go of the razor and put his hands on him. "Please – " He shuts his eyes.

Dean lifts his head and coughs. Sam opens his eyes. He's staring at Sam's dick, lip caught between his teeth, still holding onto Sam's opposite leg. Sam decides someone will have to cut that leg off before he moves it.

Dean lets go before it comes to that. He reaches down to the water and touches Sam's dick. Just one sweep of his thumb across the tip, then curls all his fingers around the head and tugs.

"Fuck," says Sam.

Dean flicks a look at him. His hair is kind of long at the moment and it's all in his eyes, but Sam knows Dean's faces really fucking well. This one says he's stuck dead center between wanting to tuck him up in bed and wanting to fuck him through it. Sam waits for him to reach a decision, gripping so tight to the sides of the tub that his fingers hurt, and thinks about how every other person in the world doesn't know what it's like to be loved like this.

"Okay," says Dean, more to himself than to Sam. He stands up – Sam does his best not to whine and makes a face when it happens anyway – but then wastes absolutely no time unbuttoning his jeans.

Sam stares. Dean is wearing pink satin panties, bulging and full. He was probably wearing them last night, Sam thinks. If he'd got his hand any further up Dean's skirt, he would have felt Dean wearing them.

Dean steps over the edge of the tub and sinks down over Sam's legs. The water slops _everywhere_ but Sam does not give a shit right now, Dean is in the bath with him and there's water soaking up his shirt and he's wearing satin panties. "Dean," Sam says, because it's the only way he can get his mouth to close. "Dean." He's heavy on Sam's legs, one foot under his thigh and the other awkwardly flat between Sam's other leg and the side of the tub, because it's kinda really small for the both of them in there. Sam tries to rock up.

"Stay still," says Dean. He presses the heel of one hand down on top of the panties and doesn't tell Sam off when he immediately puts his own hand on top of Dean’s. Dean wraps the fingers of his other hand around Sam's dick again. He slides his fist all the way down and back up again, eyes fixed on Sam's, and Sam comes just like that.

"Don't laugh at me," is the first thing he says when he's got his tongue back under control.

"Wasn't going to," says Dean. Any other time Sam would laugh at that outright, but Dean's voice is rough and stilted in a way that means he's a bit preoccupied right now.

Sam thinks. He pushes at Dean's other hand, the one between his own hand and Dean's dick, then puts his own hand back. He watches himself squeeze Dean through the material, enjoying the way it changes the sound of Dean's breathing, and crooks his fingers tighter to make it better. Dean's feet have to be cramping so bad in this position but you wouldn't know it to listen to him, curse words dropping out of his mouth all mixed up with _Sam_ and _Sammy_ and pet names that Sam's trying not to bask in. Dean is bucking into Sam's hand, and when Sam gets it together enough to look up, Dean’s face doesn't have any of the unease he's been wearing the past couple of weeks. Just that conflict of pleasure and impatience that Sam knows well enough himself.

He gets Dean all the way there in the bathtub and feels really, really good about it. Well, until he can't not notice the globs of come in the water anymore. Then they get out, because that's pretty gross, but Sam keeps hold of Dean's hand way longer than necessary.

Dean doesn't seem to mind.

\---

They go on another heist a couple days later, Sam in his girl stuff, Dean his boyfriend. They make it all of seven minutes in the first bar they pick, situated in a town a few hours' drive away from where they currently call home, don't even make it inside the next bar, and finally last a whole drink each in a bar teaming with new graduates. They're all so drunk that hustling money out of them feels like cheating, which is pretty much how the owner puts it when he throws them out the door.

Sam turns to Dean with a sigh. "You want to try somewhere else?"

Dean grins at him. Sam feels all his organs lurch. "Nah," Dean says.

Ten minutes later, Sam is back in jeans and a number of shirts, all of it Dean's, and Dean has squirmed his way into Sam's girl clothes. The shoes are a problem, Dean's feet are still two sizes bigger than Sam's, but as long as no one spots Sam's red ballet pumps under Dean's jeans, they're good. Dean is wearing his army boots same as before, and he's retrieved the wig from the car. He looks so good, bright-eyed and all his attention focused on knotting Sam's scarf around his neck. Instead of Sam's nice top, Dean is wearing one of his own shirts knotted at the waist. Sam can't look away.

He blinks when Dean nudges his shoulder. "Earth to Sammy."

"Uh –" Sam coughs. "Is this. Are you sure about this?" 

"Aren't you?" Dean is the picture of unconcern.

"They're not stupid, man."

Dean undoes another button at the top of his shirt, and rolls his lips between his teeth. His mouth is all red when he grins at Sam. "You think?" he asks.

The bouncer takes one look at Dean and waves them both through without a moment's hesitation. Sam glances at Dean, expecting and not disappointed to be met with a _told you so_ expression.

Then a door opens behind the bar, and Sam gets one look at the owner of the bar before he finds himself shoved sideways into a corner. Dean catches hold of his arm when he stumbles, hefting him upright before he can fall over, and only lets go when he's got Sam with his back pressed to the wall. 

Dean turns them around a bit until his body hides Sam better. It's a dark corner, shadows and an ornate column hiding them from view of the bar. There's a big, noisy party in the middle of the room, and a pile of jackets on the seats closest to where Sam and Dean are standing. 

Sam gets his fingers in Dean's shirt and pulls him in closer. He's trying really hard not to giggle. He peers around the column at the bar, trying to calm himself down, but the guy is still there, elbow propped on the bar top, and for some reason that just makes Sam want to laugh harder. He turns to face Dean again.

Dean frowns. He leans in until his mouth is just brushing Sam's ear. "They catch us," he says, "we're in some pretty deep shit, Sammy." 

He pulls back. Sam nods frantically.

Dean rolls his eyes and lifts his hand to cover Sam's mouth. He's wearing an expression that Sam doesn't think they're ever going to grow out of, quick and exasperated and just for Sam. It's the same look that Dean's going to be wearing ten years in the future when they've fallen out over something, and Sam's gone and done something stupid and Dean has to come rescue him and even though they're not speaking, he's still going to be wearing that look.

Sam forces himself to relax. Dean takes his hand away. "Sorry," Sam whispers.

"Yeah, yeah," says Dean.

The bar is really busy. Sam thinks that maybe they should be working their way around it, him and his gorgeous, mute girlfriend, but he doesn't really want to anymore.

Dean puts his hand back on Sam's mouth, different than before. Half pressed to Sam's chin, two fingers just covering his mouth. He presses down on Sam's lips with his fingertips, gaze intent. 

Sam can't look away. He kind of wants to laugh again but then, it's not really like that at all, just something that's building up and getting ready to burst out of his chest. His hands have dropped without him realising it; one further down Dean's shirt, somewhere around Dean's solar plexus, the other gripping Dean's arm so tight that Dean can't not feel it.

Dean's mouth curves unexpectedly and Sam feels everything lurch inside him again. He parts his lips and sucks the very tip of Dean's little finger inside. Doesn't do anything else, just watches for a change in Dean's expression. Sam loosens all his fingers, trying to relax, and takes his hand from Dean's shirt. He brings it up to Dean's other arm, holding on loosely.

Dean's eyelids flutter. He's got this look on his face that Sam can't decipher, definitely not in the dark, and not when Dean is leaving his hand right where it is on Sam's mouth. 

"Sammy," Dean says, like he wants Sam to hear this. But then he seems to run out of words.

Sam opens his mouth some more and sucks another one of Dean's fingers in.

"Shit," Dean breathes. He pulls his fingers away and crowds in closer, getting hold of Sam's chin and tilting his head and pressing a brief, rough kiss to Sam's mouth. Sam stutters a breath. "Shit," Dean says again.

He pulls away and pries Sam's hands off his body. Sam complies, letting Dean move him around until he's pressed up against the wall again, arms held straight at his sides. He chews on his lip, wanting Dean to be done and kissing him again.

Dean doesn't kiss him again. Instead he tips forward and says, "Stay there, Sammy." He sinks to his knees.

Sam gapes. "What are you –" The bar is getting busier, noisier; their corner is dark but anyone who left their jacket with the pile on the sofa could want it back any second. They could come over _right now_ and see Sam clutching at the wall with Dean on his knees in front of him.

"What did I say?" Dean says, looking up at Sam. He pushes Sam's hips back against the wall. "Stay there."

Dean doesn't wait for Sam to reply. He goes straight for Sam's jeans, pops the button and pulls the zip down and gets his hand inside. Sam gasps, helpless not to rock into Dean's hand, so turned on he doesn't know how to deal with it. Dean cups his fingers around Sam's dick, doesn't really have the room to move but squeezes instead. Then he takes his hand off and gets his fingertips under the waistband of Sam's boxers. He drags them down, shoving Sam's jeans down with it, and ducks forward to take Sam's dick into his mouth.

Sam's knees buckle. "Dean," he gasps, holding himself up against the wall. Dean hmms around him, hands back on Sam's hips. He sinks forward, sucking as he goes down. Sam takes one hand off the wall and lifts it to his mouth, bites hard on a knuckle.

Dean's wig is stopping Sam from seeing the look on his face. And he wants to know what Dean's mouth looks like around his dick. He wants to see how wide Dean's lips have to stretch, whether his eyes are open, if he looks like he's done this before or if it's completely improvised. Sam can't see. He's just going on how good it feels. So, so good.

Dean reaches up and yanks the wig off. He doesn't stop sucking, and when Sam curls his fingers around the back of Dean's head without realising he's about to, Dean hums again and sucks harder.

Sam makes it all the way up until he feels Dean's hand on his balls. It's too much; Sam tightens his hold on Dean's hair and comes right as he says Dean's name to warn him. He knocks his head back against the wall, eyes clenched shut, mouth wide open, and tries his hardest just to stay on his feet. Dean keeps his mouth on him all the way through it.

Dean is still on his knees when Sam gets another look at him. He's got a bit of Sam's come on his cheek and the shirt has come untied, and there's so much going on in his expression that Sam has to force himself not to coward out of meeting it.

Dean has a hand between his own legs, jammed against his crotch through the skirt. Sam's skirt. Sam lets out a shaky breath at that thought. He bites his lip and slides his hand down and around to the nape of Dean's neck, pulling him forwards so his head is resting against Sam's thigh. "Come on," he whispers, then thinks Dean probably won't hear it over the noise of the rest of the bar. He says it again a bit louder. "Come on, Dean."

Sam feels it when Dean gives in. He angles his head, squinting in the dark and wishing he could see better when Dean's fingers tighten around himself, then when Dean snakes his hand up under the skirt. Sam's own jeans are still halfway down his legs, boxers on top, his dick still hanging out where anyone could see. He pulls his boxers up one-handed but leaves his jeans. Dean's skin is smooth but he's got his mouth open against Sam's thigh and Sam likes the feel of it a lot. The spot of come is still there on Dean's cheek. Sam decides to lick it off, in a minute, when Dean's got off. Maybe Sam could suck Dean next.

Sam would really, really like to suck Dean next.

Dean is breathing heavy enough that Sam can hear as well as feel him. That's when the noise from the big party in the middle of the bar starts getting louder, voices more distinct, and Sam looks up to see at least three people down their drinks at once. The mood has changed, people making noise about moving on somewhere different. The owner of the bar is standing in the middle of the group.

"Dean," Sam says urgently. He clenches his fingers in Dean's hair and tugs. Dean looks up sharply. "We gotta –"

Dean scrambles to his feet, stopping halfway up to get the wig back on while Sam tries to sort out his jeans. He overbalances in his hurry and tips forward. Dean grabs for his arm to keep him on his feet, throws a look over his shoulder at the door – too many people in the way, Sam thinks – and turns around when he apparently reaches the same conclusion. Sam grabs him and pulls him down to a crouch behind the sofa. They press up against the back, knees bumping. Sam reaches out to pull the skirt down for Dean. He leaves his hand on Dean's knee when he's done.

It might have worked if one of the women leaving hadn't put her bag on the arm of the sofa while she put her coat on. The bag drops to the floor, and Sam doesn't even have time to swear before she's peering down at them while she looks for it.

"Christ," she exclaims when she sees them. Loudly. "What are you doing down there?" She stares at them, bag forgotten until Dean grabs it and holds it up for her to take.

Her eyes narrow. She snatches the bag out of Dean's hands and looks between the two of them and the pile of coats. "What are you doing?" she asks again.

Dean opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again in a hurry. Sam catches on and hastens to answer. "Going," he says. He stands up, Dean with him. "Nothing, we're not doing anything." Dean looks momentarily disbelieving, Sam would like to see him do better on the spot, but he grabs Sam's wrist and starts edging him toward the door. Sam gives the woman the best apologetic look he can muster in a hurry and lets Dean drag him away. 

He guesses when the woman doesn't shout after them that she's noticed that their hands are empty, no illicit gains whatsoever on either of their person, and they're so close to free and clear when the guy blocking their exit turns out to be the owner. He turns around and Sam does his best not to react when he realises, but apparently doesn't do a very good job of it. The guy frowns first at Sam, then at Dean, then back at Sam. "How did you get in?" he says. Sam doesn't think he really wants an answer. "How old – show me your ID, both of you."

The guy stares down Dean's body while they fumble for their fakes. His gaze drifts to Sam's feet, and that's when his mouth drops. He double takes, staring between Sam's ballet pumps and Dean's skirt and finally peering at their faces. "You – " he says incredulously. There's something like disgust colouring his features when he looks between them.

"Time to go," Dean snaps. He heaves Sam forwards and barges past both the owner and the couple blocking the way out. The owner shouts for the bouncer but they hurtle through without being either one of them tripping or getting grabbed, and make it all the way back to the Impala without Sam losing his jeans or Dean's wig flying off.

Dean starts driving before Sam even gets his door closed. They're wide-eyed and panting, and Sam's jeans are still open and Dean's shirt is wrinkled and loose, his wig askew. Sam leans sideways and pulls on the ends of it until it slips off. Dean's skirt is all rucked up again but Sam leaves it and sits up again. He coughs and zips up his jeans.

Dean gets them twenty minutes down the interstate before either of them says anything. Sam has been trying to work out how to ask if Dean is still hard. The skirt is so loose that Sam can't tell. Dean was pretty close back there in the bar, close to coming right there in front of everyone – like Sam, in front of _everyone_ – but that was a while ago now.

Dean flicks a look sideways. "Close call," he says. Sam thinks he's trying for casual.

"Yeah," says Sam, for want of anything better. He has no clue what he could say that doesn't relate to the state of Dean's dick right now and would he like Sam – 

Sam clears his throat and looks out of the window.

Five minutes later, Dean looks at him again. Sam cannot do a thing to stop himself, he glances at Dean's crotch to see if there's anything to see, yet.

Dean smirks.

"Sorry," says Sam quickly.

Dean puts the blinker on. "No you're not," he says, pulling off the road and all the way up the bank at the side of it.

Sam is across the car and pushing Dean against the driver side door the minute that the engine stops. He gets his mouth on Dean's and kisses him, open and wet and hard as he can. "No," he says between kisses, not really paying attention. "Not sorry."

"Brat," Dean mumbles. He's trying to rip the buttons open on Sam's shirt six at a time, then one-handed when Sam gets too far away for Dean to kiss him. "Stop moving."

"No," Sam says, tugging at the skirt. He finally gives up on getting it high enough that he can see, and instead just flattens his palm down on Dean's dick, curling his fingers when he finds him rock-hard.

"Sam," Dean groans. He stops fighting Sam's shirt and arches against him, fingers tightening for a moment before he gets it together again. He eventually gets it open enough that he can fit his hands inside, reaching up under Sam's t-shirt and getting his hands on Sam's skin.

Sam keeps one hand grinding down on Dean but starts fumbling at the bottom of the skirt with the other. It goes a bit wrong when Dean gets another idea, pulling Sam forward and breaking the kiss to suck on his neck. It's distracting as fuck and Sam can't do a thing that isn't moaning nonsense. 

Dean digs his fingers into Sam's back, nails scraping, pulling Sam closer. Sam hisses and crawls right the way forward so he's lying along Dean's body. Dean bucks against him, their dicks pressed together through Sam's jeans and Dean's skirt. It's awkward, the car is on a slope and they keep sliding down the bench, and now they're not scrabbling at each other's clothes anymore Sam's head is distracting him. He shuts his eyes against Dean's neck and grinds down.

Dean grazes a kiss against Sam's cheek, barely a touch because that's all the angle will give him. "Sam," he says, kind of questioning. His hands stop roving under Sam's shirt, fingers splayed across his back instead. "Sammy?"

Sam holds on tight enough that Dean can't shove him off. 

"Sam," Dean says again. "What is it?"

Sam thinks. "It's just," he says, and rolls his eyes when Dean tenses. He wiggles his hand between them and against Dean's crotch again and squeezes Dean's cock. "Not that," he says, "stop assuming. I just."

"What? You know there are places we could do this that aren't the side of the freeway." Dean tilts his head to speak against Sam's neck, breath warm. He hesitates, then kisses the same spot.

Sam shuts his eyes. "That's – um, that's. Sort of the problem?"

"We weren't – I just blew you in the middle of the bar, did you forget already?" Dean pauses. "Careful." 

"No. Uh. The opposite."

Sam waits for Dean to get it. When he does, Dean sounds just as ready to laugh as expected. "Sam," he says. "Sam, are you. We're making out on the road and it's too vanilla?"

Oh god. Sam tries to sit up but Dean tightens his hold. Sam can feel his mouth curving against his neck. "Sammy," Dean says, and scratches his nails down Sam's back again. Sam squeezes his eyes tighter and wishes he hadn't said anything. Dean says, "Sam, baby," just like when it was a joke, but it doesn't sound like a joke anymore. "If you want me to fuck you on the hood so everyone driving past can see you, I will."

There's a moment of absolute quiet.

Sam sits up. Dean stares at him with a look that suggests he's thinking about being sick, hands limp where they fell out of Sam's shirt. Sam could ask Dean to step in front of the traffic in this moment and he'd do it.

Sam thinks carefully. "No," he says. Dean's face goes whiter. "But," Sam continues, "here. Or the backseat." He puts his hand on Dean's leg and catches his eye. "If you want."

Dean still looks like he wants to throw up, shame and nerves and guilt all over his face. Sam climbs off so that Dean can sit up, but he keeps his hand where it is.

"Sam," Dean starts, but that's enough talk for Sam. It's just him and Dean at home together, and this is what they both want. He looks at Dean’s hands reaching towards him. Sam doesn’t think Dean even realises he’s doing it.

He crawls back into Dean's lap and sits down there, one leg on either side of Dean's hips, intentionally close. "I want," he says, "you to fuck me like this." He puts his hand carefully down to Dean's dick, gripping through the cotton. "Here. Or if you really want to fuck me on the hood," he grips harder, "that's okay, I just. Dean. I mean it. I want," he presses a kiss to Dean's mouth, "you to fuck me. Now. In the car."

"Or on it," Dean says hoarsely. He's got his hands around Sam's wrists, holding them tight. Sam's hand is still on Dean's cock.

"Or on it," Sam agrees. He pushes his hips down to Dean's deliberately, feeling Dean shudder and his fingers tighten around his wrists. "If that's what you want."

That's all it takes for Dean to snap out of his quiet little panic. He grins at Sam and rocks up to meet him. "Next time," he says. "When it's not dark. No one would be able to see if we did it now."

"Oh no," Sam says dryly, or tries to, but it ends up squashed into Dean's mouth, so he moans instead. Dean gets his hands back on Sam's shirt, plucking buttons out until they can shrug Sam all the way out of it in one very nearly smooth move. Dean won't let Sam pull away, holds him down by first one hand then the other as they kiss. Sam's shirt lands in a crumpled mess on the floor while they work on Dean's. They're thrusting against each other, dicks bumping together, and it is high time Sam got his brother out of that skirt. He lifts himself up just enough that he can get his fingers under the hem and yank up, figuring he can get it around Dean's waist even if not all the way off. Dean seems to agree, obligingly lifting his ass off the bench for Sam to pull the skirt up. He pulls Sam back down immediately once it's done and he's sitting in his boxers.

"Not going anywhere, Dean," Sam mutters, kissing a line along Dean's jaw. "You don't need to go all caveman."

"Thought you liked that, too." 

This time he's actually kind of mostly right, but Sam isn't going to tell him that. "Hmm," he says, and bites the smirk right out of Dean's mouth.

Not like the car is a bed or anything, but it's fucking perfect for this. Dean's head is tipped back, legs splayed apart with Sam grinding down on his cock, neither of them knocking against headrests or a gearstick. And because Dean likes to be prepared, or at least likes Sam to think he is and hopes their dad doesn't notice, there's lube under the seat. Sam snags it in his fingers and settles back down on Dean, kisses him harder. He leaves the box of condoms where it is.

Dean gropes to get Sam's jeans open. It takes an excessively long time to manage it, even when Sam tries to help. "This is your fault," Dean tells him, saying it against Sam's mouth. "Why'd you zip up?"

"Momentary stupidity," Sam replies. He gives up on his own jeans, leaving Dean to it and sticking his hand down Dean's boxers instead. "Won't happen again." He tips forward and licks a slow stripe up Dean's neck.

"You lick everyone you make out with?" Dean's voice is all sorts of breathy. Sam wonders if he could get away with sitting back and just smiling at Dean. He nuzzles behind Dean's ear instead.

"Someone told me they were into it, don't remember who."

"Wow," says Dean. "Freak." He slants his head back.

Sam sits back and just smiles at him. 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Look at you, getting all sentimental." He gets his hands on Sam's hips and urges him up to his knees, and drags Sam's jeans down with his shorts and off his legs. "Come back, that was good, Sam."

They're all but naked, Sam in just his t-shirt, Dean's shirt open and the skirt hauled up. Sam swallows a sudden bundle of nerves in his throat and puts the lube in Dean's hand. "You should – will you – "

"Yeah, Sam," Dean breathes, and doesn't look for a condom. He opens the cap and squirts a generous helping onto his fingers while Sam watches. He slicks up both hands and takes Sam's dick back into his left, jerking him slowly, and coaxes him back up to his knees again. Sam has a suspicion Dean's more nervous than he is, confirmed when Dean says, "Just – tell me if it hurts, yeah?"

"Okay," says Sam. He bites on the inside of his lip when he feels Dean press his first finger in, a little unnerved by the sensation but not wanting to freak Dean out.

Dean stops when his finger is all the way in and pulls on Sam's dick. "You okay?" 

"Yeah," says Sam. "Keep going."

Dean adds another but keeps his fist moving on Sam. "Feels real good," he says.

"On your fingers?"

"Yeah. Nothing there that shouldn't be."

"Wow. Gross, Dean." Sam shifts, kind of wanting Dean to get on with it, appreciating the time he's taking all the same. "Um – "

This is pretty much the least hot thing they've done since it looked like it might get this far, but Dean doesn't look like he's thinking the same. He's biting on his lip so hard it might break, expression intent. He's breathing pretty hard. Sam wants to kiss him. So he does.

He pulls back mid-kiss, when Dean crooks his fingers a little differently. "Oh – "

"Huh," says Dean, and does it again. Sam jerks, his back bowing away, a moan spilling over his lips. Dean presses harder. Works in a third finger and does it again.

"So hot," Dean tells him roughly. "God. Sam. Wish you could see. I'll let you do this next time, so you can." Sam's trying not to actually tremble with how good this feels but Dean's voice isn't helping. He works himself up to sink down on Dean's fingers, knees shaky and dropping him further than he intended. Dean says his name.

Sam lifts up, takes a breath, and lowers himself down again, trying to get used to the feeling.

"Can – can I –" Dean stutters. His hand has gone still on Sam's dick.

Sam nods. "Okay."

Dean pulls his fingers out slowly. Sam waits for him to slick up his cock, hands braced on Dean's shoulders.

The first press of Dean's cock kind of hurts a lot. Sam bites hard on his lip as he sinks down, not really caring that Dean's going to see. It's not like he's going to rip Sam off him.

"Doing good, Sammy," Dean tells him. He's fisting Sam's dick again, nothing fancy, just trying to distract Sam from the hurt. "Fuck. So good."

Sam swallows once he's all the way down. Licks his lips, not sure if he likes it yet. He wants to see what expression Dean is wearing but looking up suddenly feels like the hardest thing in the world.

"Sam," Dean says. 

Sam tells himself to look up. Dean is watching him closely, holding himself still. He's got one of Sam's hands in his. Sam hadn't even noticed.

"Is this okay?" Sam asks. He winces at the way his voice scrapes. "Is it – right?"

Dean looks sort of thrown. "Yeah," he says. "Fuck. It's really good. Fucking amazing. You – " Dean goes red. "Feel so good on my cock, Sammy. Feel you all around me."

Sam realises he's hanging on to every word. Dean can apparently tell. His cheeks flush deeper but he keeps on. "Thought about this. You and me. It's really – "

"Here?" Sam interrupts. He rocks forward an incremental amount.

"Sometimes," says Dean. "Or at the house. Or in a bar."

Sam takes another breath and lifts himself up, sinks down. Dean swallows. "Thought you'd be the one in the skirt, though. You don't know what you look like wearing that."

"Got some idea," Sam mutters, going down again. "You're really hot in it too."

Dean groans. "God – Sam – "

Sam grits his teeth and tries to get a rhythm going. He shifts forward on his knees and fucks down again, and, fuck, that's, fuck –

"Yeah," Dean says, sounding pleased. And really turned on. He puts his hands back on Sam's hips and lifts him up, then pulls him all the way down again. Sam moans louder and grips his dick. Dean keeps them going, lifting Sam almost completely off his dick and slamming him back down, fucking up and into him. Sam tries to keep his eyes on Dean's, mouth hanging open as Dean hits his prostate on every stroke.

"Talk, Sammy," Dean pants. He thrusts up harder. "You like this?"

"Fuck yeah," Sam mumbles. He grabs Dean's arm and wraps his fingers around it, coming up again. Dean's cock slips free and Sam uses the distraction to kiss him, sinks down on him again and fucking _mewls_ when he hits bottom. "Like it a lot," he manages. "Ah – Dean – "

"Come on," Dean says, "fuck – Sam, Christ, Sam – "

"Yeah," Sam groans. His legs are burning but it's so fucking good, and Dean's mouth is opening up under his and he doesn't want this to end. He's alternating between clenching the base of his cock and jerking it frantically, so close, so close. 

"Gonna come," Dean blurts, "come on, Sam, come on – _now_ – " 

Sam swears and comes, clenching hard on Dean. He can hear himself moaning Dean's name, forehead pressed into Dean's neck, and is distantly aware when Dean follows. He leaves his head down and concentrates on breathing, clutching Dean through it.

"Fuck," says Dean a minute later. Sam lifts his head to meet his eye, immediately distracted by the lines of come streaking Dean's chest. Dean says it again. " _Fuck_ , Sam."

"Good fuck, Sam?"

Dean beams at him. Sam grins back and shrugs. There's something blazing hot and savage inside his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, but he's pretty sure that's okay. That they're both gonna be okay.

"Fucking _awesome_ fuck, Sam," Dean tells him. He surges up to kiss Sam chastely. "And you didn't get come on the seats either."

"I didn't," Sam agrees. He lifts himself carefully off Dean's dick. "Where's yours going to end up, huh?"

Dean grabs his shirt off the floor. He balls it up in his hand and looks at Sam, hesitates. "Lie down," he says gently.

Dean drives home in the skirt and nothing else. It's a good look for him.

\---

Just because they fucked their way onto the same page doesn't meant their food situation is getting any less dire. John's going to be back in a few days but that's too long for them to go without _again_. Even though Sam isn't really inclined to get out of bed to eat, or Dean to let him. They're just not going to be able to do their thing for a while with John around.

They eventually get it together enough for Sam to find his skirt crumpled in the front seat of the car. He shrugs and wriggles into it, just about manages to stay upright when Dean blows him against the car door, and tells Dean to pull over halfway down the interstate. 

Dean doesn't fuck him on the hood but it's a near thing, and in the end it doesn't take more than an hour than it should have for them to get to the store they've decided on. Definitely no cameras anywhere around or inside it, but Sam's going to go in first and check before Dean comes in too.

Dean's messing around with the tape player when Sam gets out of the car. He walks around to Dean's side, leaning on the window ledge to watch Dean fiddle.

Dean looks up at Sam when he's finished whatever it is he's doing. Sam honestly has no idea, but Dean is happy again. He grins at Sam and looks him up and down. "Morning, hot stuff."

"Afternoon," Sam says. "It's like, 2 o'clock. Objectify me accurately." 

"Oh, believe me I will."

Sam turns to look at the store.

"All right?" Dean asks.

Sam looks at him. _You exist_ , he thinks.

"Yeah," he says. Leans through the window and steals a kiss.


End file.
